Hydrophilia
by Animegoil
Summary: Tim's been affected by one of Poison Ivy's new toxins, but his behavior is worrying enough to make Dick believe there's more to it. Tim's questions confirm it.
1. Part I

**So this thing? Was supposed to be two, three pages long. *facepalm* I should know better by now.  
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**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong><em>Hydrophilia<em>****_  
><em>**

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><p>It starts out with a phone call at two in the morning. Dick pauses, hands halfway up his thighs, Nightwing's tights bunched up in them, and frowns at hearing Tim's assigned ringtone. It's Dick Grayson's line, not Nightwing's, which tells him two things right off the bat: one, that it's not work-related. Two, that Tim is hoping that Dick won't pick up the call. Which tells him one more thing: it's a Tim-issue, something personal. And since this is Tim, always hesitant and afraid to reach out, the fact that he's actually calling shows how much he needs it.<p>

The phone rings again, drowning out the Led Zeppelin drifting up from the kitchen radio. Dick snaps back into action, tugging his tights on quickly and leaving the rest of his suit hanging around his waist like a peeled-off second skin. Bits of machinery and papers holding clues or information for his current cases scatter out of the way as he scrambles to reach the phone on the table. He should have just backflipped for it.

"Tim?"

There is nothing on the other line for a moment, and he's afraid that Tim has changed his mind and hung up already when he hears a sharp intake of breath. Dick frowns and strains to hear anything beyond that darkness.

"Tim? What's wrong?"

"You're not— out patrolling?" Tim sounds like there's glass in his throat making it painful to speak in anything more than a hoarse tone. He wonders where Tim is, what he's doing, if he's hurt, but there's nothing to give Dick any clues to form a picture in his mind.

Dick decides to answer Tim's question with as much nonchalance as possible to allow Tim to get his bearings, take his time speaking up. It's the way Tim works – he has to do things on his own time, because as soon as he's pushed, he bolts. Tim doesn't like to give straight answers. He lies all the time, even when he's not actually speaking falsehoods. Particularly when it has anything to do with feelings and vulnerability, and this is definitely a moment of odd vulnerability on Tim's part if Dick's ever seen one. "Tonight's special– got a big fish to catch, so I had to do some extra prep in order to be ready. Remember that drug-ring I've been tailing for a few weeks? Shipment comes in at four."

"Oh. I— good luck." His voice is trembling, a low-grade seismograph, and Dick can hear the raggedness of his breaths.

"Tim." Screw waiting for Tim. Patience was never one of his virtues anyway. His little brother is hurting and he wants to know why. Dick lowers his voice and tries to keep the rising alarm from squeezing his lungs. "What happened?"

Tim sucks in another breath, and there is a creak of bedsprings, morphing the darkness at the other end of the line into an image, one of Tim in his pajamas, sitting in bed, knees brought up to his chest and nothing but black surrounding him.

"Nothing. Just. Good night."

The line goes dead.

Dick tries to call back, but Tim doesn't answer. It's so typical of Tim that Dick wants to kick something. He lowers his head and grits his teeth and comes close to getting angry at Tim for being the way he is. He catches himself just in time and exhales, envisioning his breath as white smoke that rises and dissipates into the rafters. That's probably the most unfair thing he can do to Tim, though it doesn't excuse his way of being either. Instead, Dick texts him, repeating the question. Tim answers after a few minutes.

_Bad dream._ _I'm fine. _

Tim? Upset because of a dream? Dick doesn't know whether to be touched that Tim called him or more worried.

-o-

Dick can hear voices. Or more correctly, _a_ voice. He tries to ignore it at first, thinking he's just imagining things— he trusts his security system to alert him to any intruders and someone sneaking in wouldn't be talking. He's just aware enough to realize that he dozed off in the corner of his living room, back against the wall and the spilled insides of his lamp still lying mid-surgery on his lap. Damn thing has been flickering for weeks and he finally decided to fix it. He shifts slightly and suddenly his body comes to life—he realizes there's still a screwdriver in his hand, and he can suddenly feel the cool ceramic lamp on his thigh through the thin cloth of his basketball shorts. His other thigh burns along the line of stitches he just sewed in that morning, and he wonders idly what time it is.

He's debating whether to become fully conscious or indulge his body's pleas for much-needed rest. He doesn't usually listen, but the Alfred in his head always chastises him and reminds him that a well-rested body functions better and makes less mistakes. The Bruce in his head constantly reminds him that he can't allow mistakes.

Then he hears it again, the voice. This time he realizes it's calling his name, and it has risen in volume and panic, so much so that for a second he doesn't recognize it as _Tim's_ voice. His body jolts awake and he shoves the lamp and its wires to the side, pushing against the wall to stand up. He hears feet running down the stairs from his bedroom and tries to call out Tim's name, but the stitches in his injured thigh yank apart when his quad contracts and the sound gets lost as he grits his teeth. Tim runs past the living room, where Dick is conveniently in the one spot that's not immediately visible, and into the kitchen, calling out Dick's name the whole time, and God, his voice is nearly _breaking_, he sounds so panicked. Dick's insides go cold, because for Tim to lose his cool like this…

"Tim!"

All sounds from the kitchen stop for a moment, and then Robin appears in the doorway, pale-faced and nearly panting, and stares at Dick.

"D-Dick." His voice stutters, barely a breath, and so relieved at seeing Dick that he sways in place for a moment.

"Tim? What's up?"

Tim's body twitches forward like he wants to go to Dick but then he catches himself and instead grips the doorway. Dick scans him quickly, the action almost second-nature. There are scratches in his costume, a few scrapes and a pinkish swell on the side of his jaw that will probably darken in the next twenty-four hours. Dick hones in immediately on the twigs and leaves embedded in his cape, and the thorn on the side of his collar.

"Poison Ivy?" he asks, frowning and leaning against his reading chair to take some pressure off his leg now that he's convinced Tim isn't injured. But Tim keeps on staring at him, mouth twitching dangerously downward, and Dick holds his arms out. "Timmy? C'mere, what's wrong?"

Tim shakes his head, and even with the domino mask, Dick can tell his eyes are wide. Dick doesn't know what to do. He sees Tim's Adam's apple bob up and down nervously as he swallows, and he tries again. "C'mon, Tim, what are you doing here in Blud? Is everything alright? Does Bruce know you're here?"

Tim licks his lips once, fingers flexing on the doorway, and trembles slightly. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then closes it and just nods once. God, what's got him so panicky?

Dick moves towards him, and Tim's gaze hones in immediately to the limp and now he looks even more anxious than before, chest rising and falling with his shallow breaths. His body does that funny thing where it twitches forward before Tim clamps his fingers around the wooden doorframe again.

"Remember the big fish last night?" Dick grins to ease the increased dip of Tim's eyebrows. "There were a few complications, no biggie." He reaches Tim and puts his hand on his shoulder, intending to comfort him. Tim flinches and the shaking increases abruptly, a shudder that ripples down Tim's whole body. Dick takes his hand off, shoving down the irrational hurt that sparked up. But he knows Tim can be funny about touches sometimes.

"Tim? C'mon, look at me? What's wrong?" Normally Dick would kneel down so that he could look up at Tim, since the chances of Tim looking up at him are slim at best, but with his leg that's not really an option he's eager to try out. Instead, he slides his fingers under Tim's chin, noticing the dampness of his skin and the heat that's almost but not quite feverish. He pulls Tim's reluctant chin upwards and flicks the lenses of his mask up.

"Tim…" he sees at once how dilated his pupils are, and the anxiety in them. Dick tugs Tim, having to do it twice in order to get Tim to let go of the doorframe, and then Tim is in his arms, a trembling mess of teenaged limbs and muscles and spiky hair. His breathing is still much too fast and shallow, dangerously close to hyperventilating, and Dick's pretty sure the only reason he's not is because he knows the training techniques—breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Bruce always told him that the best indicators of a person's state of mind are their pulse and their breathing, because they're unconscious reflexes. They have better control over them than most people do, but that's when they're consciously exercising it. Otherwise, they're just as subject to the natural reactions of their body as anyone else.

Tim's breathing is telling Dick that his first task is to get Tim calm again. He pulls Tim to the couch and sits him down. The cushions sink underneath them, dragging them both downward into a comfortable embrace. "C'mon, Tim, head between your knees, that's it."

Tim closes his eyes, back curved as he lowers his head, and Dick tucks the cape to one side and begins to rub Tim's back. Tim takes a deep shuddering breath, arching into the touch, and then it's back to stiff muscles and timed breathing. Dick rakes two fingers down each of Tim's shoulder blades then digs his thumb into the side of each vertebrae, going carefully down his spine. Tim shudders but Dick can see him biting back his moans.

"Tim, you have to tell me what's wrong."

Tim opens his eyes, unfocused gaze landing on the cranberry juice stain on the carpet from two months ago, courtesy of a visit from Roy. He stares at it for a while and then murmurs, "Water."

"Huh?"

Tim clears his throat once and repeats, his breath wavering as Dick digs both hands into the muscles between his neck and shoulders, "Water."

He sees it at once for what it is: Tim asking for space.

"Sure thing, Timmy," he says, giving him a last squeeze and knowing that Tim will read it as understanding. "How 'bout I make you some green tea, getcha calmed down, yeah?" He can't help one last touch to brush Tim's hair away from his forehead as Tim nods. Then Dick stands and goes into the kitchen.

He searches for a cup that's not dirty, and in the end finally has to rinse out one of the mugs in the dishwasher. He fills it with water from the tap and puts it in the microwave for two minutes. It may be longer than is actually needed, but it will give Tim the time he needs to compose himself. Dick stares at the timer the whole time, and the only reason he's not pacing or climbing the counters is because the stitches are stinging and stretching uncomfortably, and sometimes he remembers that acrobatics are not good for a healing body. As it is, he spends that two-minute-long eternity fiddling with the sugar spoon and thinking.

_1:55_. There's nothing particularly off, but there's clearly something wrong. It's written all over Tim's body. _1:34_. He's pretty sure that it's nothing too serious, at least, in terms of the Mission. Tim is rational and calm under pressure, devising plans and working on solutions—this is not the Tim of a crisis. _1:14_. Dick has never seen Tim so tense and anxious, but his reluctance to speak tells Dick that this is something more personal in nature. :_46_. He thinks back to the night before, the phone call in the middle of the night and Tim's text. It has to be linked. _:21_. But Tim's not really the type to let a bad dream get him this upset, is he? _:07_.

Dick grips the counter and bites his lip, straining to hear anything from the living room above the microwave's hum.

_:03, :02, :0—. _

He takes out the steaming mug before the microwave even beeps.

He nearly panics when he goes back into the living room and Tim is gone, but a quick glance around finds Tim at the window, where a gentle pattering of rain drums against the glass now. His arms are wrapped around himself, squeezing tightly enough to deform the Kevlar padding.

"Got your cup of yummy antioxidants here," Dick calls, raising the mug. Tim doesn't respond, doesn't even appear to have heard him. His gaze is focused on the rivulets slipping haphazardly down the windowpane, and he looks faintly pained, like the raindrops are telling him a tragic story and Tim is sympathizing—no, _empathizing_. Dick bites his lip because he doesn't like seeing his Tim like this and not understanding why. Not that Tim has ever been _easy_ to figure out, or that Dick has a handle on him the way Tim has shown he's got on _him_, but over time Tim has been less and less of a closed book—until Dick comes across the pages either left blank or scribbled in some foreign language.

"Tim?"

When Dick finally reaches out to put his hand on Tim's shoulder, Tim jerks violently, bumping into the window and turning wide eyes onto Dick, and his hand doesn't even come up to rub at his head, despite it sounding like it hurt. Dick pushes down his immediate instinct to hug Tim and rub his back, if only because Tim sure is responding fabulously to touch. He sighs and says, "C'mon, couch and then confession time."

It takes another nudge to get Tim to move. He settles on the couch, back straight and eyes cast downward, and his breathing is still too shallow and there are still tremors running under his skin like his muscles are having a minor seismic tantrum.

"This should help." Dick hands the tea to Tim and ripples immediately appear in the liquid. "Um, should I—"

"No, I— got it," Tim cuts in, tightening his grip on the cup. It's the most he's said all night. He takes a sip, hissing inwardly as the heat scalds his tongue. Dick sits next to him and puts his hand tentatively on Tim's back. Tim only winces slightly, and Dick begins scratching gently through the cape. Tim's breath doesn't even out, but the tremors do seem to slow to the occasional shudder and there is some color back in his cheeks, so Dick counts that as a small victory and nudges him.

"So, what's got you in such a tizzy, Tim?"

Tim tenses immediately, but he closes his eyes and makes an obvious effort to relax. "You know Scarecrow's fear gas?"

"What?" Dick's mouth drops open. "Tim, you're not telling me you're under it, are you? There's an antidote in your _belt_—" There's no way Bruce let Tim walk around under its influence, and it's second-nature for them to carry around the antidote and administer it immediately, and Tim knows better than that—

"It's not fear gas," Tim says quickly, scrubbing his face and taking a steadying breath. "As you guessed, it was Poison Ivy. But I believe she's developed a new toxin, based off the Scarecrow's fear gas. It induces a state of high-grade anxiety." His lips quirk humorlessly it what might have been a smile at any other point. "Hence my 'tizzy'."

Dick frowns and bends down to peer at Tim, rubbing his back a little harder and squeezing his arm with his other hand. That explains it. The breathing, his pallor, the dilated pupils and his anxiousness, the odd way he was acting. But…

"Bruce already took a blood sample and is working on an antidote, but until then all I can do is wait it out and…" Tim trails off and stares at his cup. For his part, Dick is infinitely relieved to hear Tim speaking normally or at all, really. His voice sounds a little strained, but now he can attribute that to the toxin. Tim and Bruce's voices have always had a calming effect on Dick. When Dick is feeling overwhelmed by his inevitable attachment to his feelings, their matter-of-fact, pragmatic stance is— usually— a grounding force for him.

Dick is silent for a moment and then stands up, squeezing Tim's shoulder briefly, "Well, first things first, little bird. Let's get you out of costume and cleaned up, and then we can have a nice round of teeth-flossing and bookshelf organizing to relax you."

Tim freezes for a moment, and Dick gets it. It's hard sometimes to relinquish the safety and comfort conferred by the costume. Dick gives him his most encouraging smile and Tim finally relents, beginning to peel off his mask.

Satisfied, Dick goes back into the kitchen, rummaging through the pantry for the marmalade-filled biscuits he knows are Tim's favorite pick-me-up snack. He always keeps a pack handy.

When he comes back out, he finds Tim is back again at the window, staring at the water droplets and worrying his lower lip with his teeth. His mask is off, along with the cape and gauntlets, allowing Dick to see the contours of his shoulder blades as he hugs himself, knuckles poised like claws around his arms. The skin between his eyes is bunched into a mishmash of wrinkles with the force of his frown. But worse, his breath is stuttering again, fast and breathing in little hitches.

Dick comes up behind him, lifting his gaze from the thin, prickly hairs on the back of Tim's neck to the window, trying to see what has grabbed his attention. Outside, all he sees is the rain-blurred outline of Bludhaven's pitiful skyline against a grey sky. There are three lights on in the building across the street, and Dick can recite the name, current and past affiliations and employment of the occupants in each apartment. A yellow taxi car meanders slowly past them, hoping to catch a poor sod looking for a way out of the rain. With the rain, Dick can't see the license plate but he follows its path nonetheless.

"What do you see out there, Timmy?"

It takes Tim a while to respond. "Water."

Dick can't tell if Tim is making a joke or not. Judging by his tone, he's not, but he can't think of another explanation for the nonsense answer and decides to go along with it. "Enough to make anyone look like a drowned rat, right, Timmy? Lucky you got here just before it started."

Tim doesn't respond, but when Dick, unable to resist any longer, carefully pulls Tim towards him, making him stumble backwards, Tim lets himself. Nothing more, just his back leaning against Dick's chest, the push and pull of their lungs expanding with each breath and the white noise of the rain. Dick tracks with satisfaction the slowing of Tim's breath and the way his shoulders drop little by little and his head leans back to bump against Dick's shoulder. Dick gazes at the thin scrape on the left shoulder, a tear in the red of Robin's fabric that has gone even through the padding, revealing a glimpse of skin made whiter by contrast of the dark Kevlar and the trickle of blood that had oozed out, now coagulated. He traces it with one finger, digging out a tiny thorn embedded in the padding, and rubs Tim's arm with the other.

"Ready to go back? Get cleaned up, little wing?"

Tim nods slowly, and even though Dick can't see more than the edge of his eyelashes, he's sure that Tim is still staring at the window. There's something off, and Dick hasn't put all the pieces together yet, but at least this he can do. He can do aftermath: showers, bandaging, hugging and comforting. He maneuvers Tim around, up the stairs, snagging the cup of tea and snacks, and leads him to his bedroom. It's pretty indicative of his personality if he does say so himself: several case folders that should be in his official Nightwing base are splayed on the desk along with a half-eaten cereal bowl, and his train-surfing blindfold hangs on the back of the chair. The movies Wally brought over a week ago clatter when Dick nudges them out of the way, but at least his mini-trampoline is tucked neatly against the corner and his CD collection is pristine. Mostly because he's been listening to the radio lately, but hey. His Nightwing costume lies in a blue-black heap in the corner closest to the bathroom, needing some repairs, and the covers on the bed are messy, all lumped to the side and hanging off the edge to pool on the floor. He forgot to make the bed this morning—afternoon—having woken up to a headache and the immediate concern of blood still seeping from the knife wound in his thigh. Ah, he loves his job.

"Pardon the messiness," he says cheerfully, knowing Tim has seen worse, but that it will doubtlessly grate on his nerves. Tim stares blankly at it for several seconds, and the lack of reaction begins to worry Dick until Tim shuffles over and begins to tug his covers into some semblance of order. His movements are sluggish and mechanic, as if he's doing this on autopilot, but the simple task gives his motions a sense of purpose that's reassuring to Dick. He shakes his head with a little chuckle when Tim struggles to gather the overly fluffy comforter in his arms and ends up toppling onto the bed with it. Tim slowly sits up, moving like his joints and gears have become loose and unstable, and wraps the comforter around him so that only his face and a tuft of black hair are visible.

"What I wouldn't give to have your camera right now." Dick laughs, getting the cup of tea and the snack and wiggling a little gap in the comforter to place them in Tim's hands. "Eat, drink and be still for a moment while I get you clothes." Tim watches him with one of his characteristically intense looks. It used to unnerve Dick to feel like someone was _probing_ into him, but now he likes having Tim's undivided attention. What he doesn't like is the way his pupils are still too dilated, Tim's baby blues nearly swallowed up in black and swirling with distress. At this point, he's well-versed in the subtleties of Tim's body, not that it makes him any less inscrutable. Just because he _knows_ from the way Tim's jaw is set that there's something bothering him doesn't make it any easier for Dick to figure out _why_.

At least there's a little more color in his face, and he doesn't flinch when Dick cups his cheek and strokes gently with one thumb. "Stay still, little wing."

He throws opens his closet and begins to gather clothes for Tim. Dick could use his old clothes, which he's kept exactly for this reason, but over time enough of Tim's actual clothes have been left behind to form a small, multi-occasion collection. Dick isn't sure how Tim would take it if Dick confessed that sometimes he bundles Tim's shirts under his pillow, pleased not only by the scent, but by the feel of touching something that belongs to Tim. He has one of Babs's old jackets he does that with too. He tosses the clothes on the bed, and goes into the bathroom to hang an extra towel for Tim on the hook.

He leans against the doorway for a moment, watching the bundle of covers-and-Tim. Tim is staring at his cup again, or more specifically, the tea inside. Dick can't figure out what's off, but it seems as if every time he leaves Tim on his own he finds something to fixate on – the tea, the raindrops. The odd thing is that now that Dick looks closely, Tim isn't just staring with a far-off look at the tea, but actively observing it. He swirls the cup slowly and dips his finger in it, entranced. It reminds Dick of when they come a particularly gruesome death scene, and you _can't stop looking at it_. You can't help noting the layer of skin and adipose tissue, the glistening muscle underneath bundled in choppy fibers, and the shiny ivory glint of bone, but it makes you dazed and you're observing it with half of your brain while the other half is floating away looking for a sane place to hold onto. But there's nothing horrifying about a cup of tea, or a rain-covered windowpane, so Dick can't figure out why Tim would be wearing that pained and completely enthralled expression. He swallows and rubs his knuckles, a self-conscious gesture.

"C'mon, Tim, let's get you undressed and in the shower now."

The cup slips from Tim's hands. It only falls a few inches before sinking into the comforter, but it lies on its side and the bit of liquid left in it soaks into the fabric. Tim makes a small noise, hands frozen in the air and staring at it with a horrified expression.

"Oh, woops," Dick says looking around for a spare rag. Tim jerks and looks at him with wide eyes.

"I— I'm so—"

"Relax, it's just tea, it's not even that much." Dick gives up on finding a rag and pulls off his t-shirt, dabbing at the comforter to soak up the tea. Lucky it was green tea—hardly a stain. He glances up and sighs when Tim still looks as if he's broken a million-dollar vase or let the Joker escape and he's expecting a beating. "Tim, it's really not a big deal. It'll dry in a jiffy, it's not even going to stain." He pauses to rub Tim's arm comfortingly. "Please don't worry about it?"

Tim scrubs his face and takes a deep breath. "I—I know. I know that, you're right but. I'm not… not exactly myself right now. The toxin is throwing off my sympathetic nervous system." He scrunches his eyes shut and grits his teeth, blows out a breath and sucks one in. Repeats the process. "I—I can't seem to control my pulse or breathing. The effects are— a bit more pervasive than I initially thought."

Of course Tim is only talking straight when it's something about the toxin or the symptoms or something generally technical. But it's better than not talking at all. Dick bunches up his shirt and tosses it on top of his Nightwing costume before turning to sit next to Tim and rub his cheek with one thumb. Tim sighs and though he doesn't lean into the touch, the frown lines in his face relax. "I hear ya. Which is why I want to get you into bed and get you relaxed. The shower will help." He gives in to temptation and the frustration in Tim's eyes and kisses his brow, pressing his forehead against Tim's and feeling the burst of heat. "I'm gonna take the cup downstairs, bring the first-aid kit, so go on and get in the shower so I can fix you up when you get out, yeah?"

He smiles at Tim before he leaves and the sight of his baby brother still bundled up in the comforter fills him with a heady rush of affection. Tim means so, so much to them. Dick can't express it enough. He doesn't know how to make Tim understand that, even though he's tried on numerous occasions, only to have Tim give him this doubtful look— and Dick can understand that, sort of. He's been told that he's so sincere about everything he does that it's hard to tell what's truly meaningful based solely on his sincerity. He doesn't see how that makes sense— _everything_ is meaningful and important relative to its context.

Tim is… the chance at redemption for his lack of involvement with Jason, his lead into a renewed relationship with Bruce, the center of their family, the broker of new meaning into his life, a source of inspiration. Tim makes him feel needed, and that's something integral to Dick's being, something that Bruce always refused him.

Without even thinking about it, he stops, turns around to hobble back into the room, grab Tim and hug him tightly, ruffle his hair through the comforter on his head, and leave again.

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><p><strong>And this is purely my excuse to have a freaked-out Tim being taken care of by Dick. I'm unashamed. Next chapter up soon.<br>**


	2. Part II

**I can't believe how much re-editing this thing needed.  
><strong>

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong><em>Hydrophilia<em>****_ - 2  
><em>**

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><p>Downstairs, Dick puts the cup in the sink and picks up his phone. He enters the code that allows his house phone to access the secure line to the Batcave and waits.<p>

When it stops ringing and there's nothing but silence on the other end, Dick begins, "How did you let him come all the way here in the state he's in?"

"I followed him half of the way and monitored him through a tracer the other half. I trusted him to be in good hands once he arrived," Bruce answers smoothly.

"Huh, I'm flattered. Have you found an antidote yet? I'm not really keen on giving him benzodiaze-whatevers, so I'm trying to get him calmed down the old-fashioned way."

"The toxin contains certain plant elements that are difficult to find in the North American continent, so it will take a few days to get them delivered and construct the antidote from them. My analysis shows that there should be no long-term consequences to letting the toxin dissipate naturally, though the short-term effects are rather insidious."

"Yeah, unfortunately, though there's something else bothering me about it… does it induce spacing-out? He's been doing that a lot on me, and that doesn't exactly fall under anxiety symptoms. I'm just surprised you let him wander around on his own with the way he's acting."

Bruce pauses for a moment. "He was rather insistent on seeing you. As for the distractibility, he performed his duties as per usual, so I saw no problem. Though Alfred noted he was rather more subdued tonight than usual."

"Was something bothering him?" Dick thinks back to the phone call from the night before.

"Not that he told me."

"Ah." Not as if that says much when regarding Tim. "Okay well, I'm gonna go back up to the kid and I'm gonna have him spend the night with me seeing as how it's—" he glances at the clock, "past one already. And tomorrow's…" he glances at the calendar, "good, Saturday."

"Report back to me the continuation of the effects of the toxin for the database."

Dick opens his mouth to answer, but the line is already dead.

"Jeez, Tim and Bruce alike, can't anyone wait for a response before hanging up?"

When he gets back to his room, he's pleased to hear the shower running and see the comforter neatly spread out over the bed. Robin's costume is folded on the chair, mask and gauntlets on top. The corners of the fold aren't as crisp as usual, and Dick wonders if it'd be mean to tease Tim about it. He places the first-aid kit on the bedside table along with another cup of water, and frowns at the untouched biscuits. While Tim's not exactly known for having a sweet tooth—that's definitely more Dick's weakness— it's his favorite, and the kid is still so small, even for a fifteen-year-old.

His mattress sinks with a low groan when he sits on it, lifting the hem of his shorts to peer at his stitches. They're an angry red, though at least it's not bleeding more than a few beads around the stitches. Hurts like a bitch though, and Dick pokes his thigh a few inches away from the wound to test the reach of the pain, and hopes it doesn't get infected. It's not inflamed, at least. He'll apply some more disinfectant when he bandages Tim's scrapes.

Satisfied with the plan of action, he lets himself drop back to sprawl across his bed, turning his head to look at the door. He has a few minutes now to think about what's been bothering him—Tim is acting off, and Dick— call it instinct or just intimate knowledge of Tim—can't chalk it all up to a simple toxin that makes you nervous as hell. Even when Dick has been under fear toxin, which is much more intense, he's been jumpy and nervous but not—not spaced out or pained the way Tim has been acting. And it doesn't explain why Tim felt the need to come all the way over to his place when by all means he should have gone home to sleep it off. Dick is willing to bet his future as Nightwing that it has something to do with the call last night. Dick isn't sure he buys that 'bad dream' business Tim replied with, but he's pretty sure that it's connected.

There's a sudden clatter from within the bathroom, and Dick raises his head to call out, "Tim? You okay in there?"

No response. That's pretty par for the course with Tim, but when asking if someone's okay, Dick can't ignore a lack of response. It takes until that moment for Dick to realize that he doesn't hear any sounds from the bathroom—the shower's running, but the accompanying splashes and the shifts in the fall of the water as one moves back and forth under it are missing.

"Shit," Dick mutters as he rolls to a stand, limping slightly, and heads to the bathroom. Crap, he has no idea what to expect, he hopes Tim didn't pass out or something—

He opens the door and blinks against the steam wrapping around him like a hot, humid glove, and rushes forward to the naked figure sitting on the lid of the toilet with his arms wrapped around himself.

"Shit, shit, shit." Dick wipes Tim's wet, still-foamy hair away from his eyes and rubs his arms, hands sliding down wet skin slick with the occasional patch of soap. He's hyperventilating again and his eyes are a little wild, locked downward at the ground. His thin chest is heaving up and down as if he can't get enough air in, loud rattling gasps that scare Dick. "C'mon, deep breaths, head between your knees… We're definitely getting you the benzodiazepines."

He dives for his bathroom cabinet and begins rummaging underneath the sink, looking for the pills he knows are stored somewhere in there. When he finally spots the pink and silver package he crows in triumph and grabs the rinsing cup next to the sink and fills it with water.

Tim's hands are shaking enough that he doesn't even attempt to hold the cup, so Dick holds his chin and waits for Tim to catch his breath enough to toss the pill and a gulp of water down his throat. He murmurs constant reassurances the whole time, meaningless white noise like, "That's it, little brother, you'll feel better soon, you'll get through his Tim, my Tim, my Robin."

It takes a few minutes for Dick to coach Tim through the worst of it and for the sedatives to take effect. Dick's fingers work along two paths – one that runs between Tim's scars and another one that actually runs along them, skipping over the bruises and the fresher cuts but sliding along the raised, pinkish-white ridge of a chemical burn from a Titans mission two years ago and a patchwork of scars from a bad fall last year. Each one of those scars tells a story, and sometimes, on those other rare occasions they have the comfort of a bed under them and easy silence between them, Dick asks him to retell them. Dick finds a special comfort in at least knowing all the intricacies of Tim's body, even if not those of his mind – yet.

Dick's thigh hurts from his position kneeling next to the toilet, and the humidity and steam are almost uncomfortable, but they also make the air thick and doubtlessly force Tim to deepen his breaths. Dick catches sight of the bottle of shaving cream that had fallen and caused the initial clatter and… no, that's not right. Dick has several products on his counter, most an attempt from Alfred to instill some class and quality into his hygiene. The shaving cream is the only one that isn't in a nice expensive glass bottle. Meaning, the only one that wouldn't break if deliberately dropped—say, in order to make a noise and get someone's attention. Dick stares at the bottle and then back at Tim, hair plastered wetly against his head as he shakes and shakes beneath Dick's hands despite the heat. He couldn't just _call_ him? If that's not passive-aggressive, Dick doesn't know what is. Sometimes he thinks he understands how Tim works—again, the how if not the why— but then Tim throws him a curveball like this. He wonders if he'll ever truly understand him.

Dick grew up with Bruce and that says—well, volumes. He's used to reading between the lines and it helps that Dick's _naturally_ good at gestural cues. But if Bruce is a labyrinth, Tim is freaking Byzantine. Dick at least has years and years of experience with Bruce, even if most of those years consisted of blind obedience and trust. _You drive me insane_, he wants to say, _I'll never figure you out_. But that's not likely to make Tim feel better. So he settles for nuzzling the back of Tim's neck, getting a bit of shampoo foam on the bridge of his nose.

Eventually, Tim's chest stops heaving up and down like a wave under the constant circular motion of Dick's palm along the center of Tim's back, his other hand squeezing Tim's bony knee comfortingly. The benzos must be taking effect, because Tim's shoulders begin to droop along with his eyelids.

"Better?"

Tim breathes in deeply, like he's about to blow out candles, and pushes against his thighs so that he can sit up and rest bonelessly against Dick, who immediately shifts to wrap an arm around his shoulders. He has to tighten his grip in light of the slippery patches of water and soap still on his skin. Tim's head lolls towards Dick's as his lips form a breathless "yeah" that Dick barely hears but at least sees.

"You're really worrying me here, little brother."

Tim's breath puffs out a short 'sorry' as he levers himself against Dick to sit up again.

"What happened?"

Tim glances at the shower, still running, and shivers a little, rubbing his arms up and down. "Water," he murmurs.

"What?"

Tim blinks, as if just realizing he'd spoken, and shakes his head. "Nothing, I… got dizzy."

Dick bites back a comment as Tim manages to stand up but doesn't last more than two three seconds before his legs give out from under him and he falls back down.

"Looks like someone's gonna need some help rinsing off," Dick grins, easing himself back into a standing position and stripping in a few quick motions before giving Tim a hand. They wobble awkwardly to stand under the spray, and Tim is dead weight, just barely staying on his feet. Dick has his arms wrapped under Tim's armpits, holding him up while Tim rubs at his hair feebly in an attempt to get the shampoo out. The water is lukewarm at this point, raining against Dick's skin and running into his eyes, forcing him to blink repeatedly. It feels good, and Dick leans his head back to let expose his throat to the gentle drumming. Tim's skin is heat pressed in a hot line down Dick's front, and Dick kisses the back of his neck, his favorite spot, and pulls Tim a little closer, rocking him slightly as their bodies slip and slide against each other. He knows he's shamelessly exploiting this opportunity to touch Tim, but Dick can _always_ use more touch, and Tim, though he may not admit it, probably needs it more than he'll ever realize.

They've done this enough times by now—sometimes zombie-like is the best way to describe yourself after patrol— that Dick is pretty sure Tim's not uncomfortable with it. Which, now that he thinks about it, makes Dick wonder again _why_ Tim felt the need to drop his shaving cream bottle to get his attention.

"You could have just called me, you know," he murmurs in Tim's ear, loud enough to be heard above the shower spray.

Tim's shoulders twitch up as his body tenses and he leans forward, away from Dick. Dick mentally slaps himself for having brought it up at all. Instead of getting defensive though, Tim turns his head, just enough so that the tips of his dark eyelashes peek past the side of his face, dripping water.

"Have you… have you ever drowned?"

Dick's hands, about to pull Tim back against him, pause. He grimaces because yeah, he's almost drowned several times. The panic that grips you at that moment, the narrowing of everything in life down to the simple fact that you _can't breathe_, that there's nothing but darkness around you and water, merciless, unhelpful, dangerous water, how heavy your clothes feel, working against you to pull you down, and you have no idea how far away from the surface you are, whether you even have a chance to reach it, and your body works in automatic to gag at the water clogging your lungs and throat but that only brings in another gush of water into your throat…

Dick snaps back to himself when Tim shifts, lifting his forearms to watch the splattering of water on the pale, unblemished skin, the way the drops splash, pool and slip to drip down, constant and unwavering.

Dick hears the proverbial mental click as everything falls into place.

"You almost _drowned_?" he gasps, and Tim winces, making Dick realize that he's just bruised the kid's ribs by digging his fingers into his chest. God, his Tim, his Timmy, if anything happens to him... Jason whispers with a sardonic grin that it's _always_ a possibility. His heart is hammering so hard in his ears that he almost doesn't hear Tim respond.

"I did drown."

Dick's about to argue that statement, because when you drown you die, and Tim's very much alive, thank God, and thus he _almost_ drowned—but then it strikes him that ever-so-technical Tim with his oh-so-careful choice of words has to mean something by his very deliberate statement. Dick draws in a shaky breath and pulls Tim tightly against him, squeezing every particle of air out from between them to feel Tim, real and alive Tim, pressed against his chest, the water making a seal between them.

"Explain," he demands, voice barely more than a whisper. It still sounds out clearly past the shower spray.

Tim's movements have become loose with the sedatives, his scraggly frame lying limply in Dick's arms. His voice weaves through the air like a fluttering thread in the wind, insubstantial and wispy when he says, another non-sequitur, "What's the last thing you'd remember before dying?"

"You're… kinda freaking me out here, kid."

Tim sighs like this is any other conversation where Dick is being avoidant just to bug him, and his elbow brushes against Dick's side. Dick wonders if that was a failed attempt to elbow him. "Answer."

Dick takes a moment. He remembers one of the many, many times he thought he was going to die, back when he was little, remembers Robin being ready because it was what Bruce had instilled in him, but at the same time _Dick_ wasn't ready. He was falling, and he had a flashback of falling off the high rope back at the circus, a mere toddler, and how scared he'd been. He remembered the relief when his dad had caught him, and had wished, at that moment, that Bruce would catch him.

He remembers another time, trapped in a pocket of air inside a ruined underground laboratory, sitting in the dark and curled in a corner for warmth. Dick thought of each one of his loved ones – his teammates, his family, his friends, random acquaintances that had made him happy, moments when he'd been proud and satisfied about himself, and mulled very briefly over certain regrets. Then Dick thought about the last person he'd slept with. At that time, he'd been going out with Kory, and he had dwelt on every aspect of her body, her smooth, always hot-to-the-touch skin, the slip of her hair between his fingers and the tickle of her nails along the arch of his foot, how it'd made him feel, how he'd enjoyed making her feel. Though he wasn't much of a religious person, he thanked whoever was out there for the perfection of touch and the act of making love. Dick is never more at peace with himself and more in tune with the world than when his whole body is involved in the act—for him, the definition of _living_ is _moving_. And though he loves moving by himself, through the air with flips and stunts— nothing is better than moving _with_ someone. He had kissed Kory to the point of almost asphyxiating himself when they'd found him.

Tim sways, bumping into Dick's chest, and Dick blinks. "Ah, woops, we better get you horizontal as soon as possible." He reaches around Tim to shut off the water and holds Tim in place while he gropes blindly for the towel behind him. Tim shivers in the cold, reaching out to touch the water droplets on the ceramic wall tiles, dragging his fingers through the droplets and spreading them. The action makes Dick distinctly uncomfortable, so he takes Tim's hand and pulls it back carefully. Tim obeys wordlessly, standing still as Dick gives his short hair a few scrubs and then wraps the towel over and around his shoulders like a makeshift cape. "Here we go," he says as he helps Tim step out of the shower so that he can finish drying and sit on the toilet, to wait for Dick. Tim watches him as he fumbles with the towel to dry himself, patting his stitches dry, and even though Tim's eyes are glazed over, their gaze is locked unfalteringly on Dick. His eyes have always been bluer and deeper than Dick's.

Dick ignores it in favor of scrubbing the towel across his chest and abs, knotting the towel around his waist while he tries to think of alternate answers, but he knows it's of no use. Aside from the fact that he doesn't like lying, he's not really sure what Tim's looking for. Any answer could potentially be problematic, but he knows the one he's going to give is not one that Tim's really going to understand or look at favorably.

By the time he looks up, his time is done. Tim's gaze has sharpened considerably, and he doesn't have to say anything for Dick to know he's demanding an answer. Dick rolls his right shoulder to ease some of the tightness out of it, a few rotations forward and a few back. It pops audibly, a perfect opening line.

"Well, I suppose the simplest answer is sex. Yup, good ol' fantastic love-making with Kory." Tim's jaw goes slack for a split second before Tim sighs and looks away, looking resigned. Not even disappointed, just resigned, as if he'd expected this. Dick pouts. "C'mon, Tim. I know that sounds pretty shallow, but it's one of the greatest human experiences. It's one of the most intimate connections you can have with people. You'll understand that at some point, you know."

Tim doesn't even respond, just pulls the towel tighter around himself and stands up, dodging Dick's outstretched hand and heading into the bedroom, steps crooked.

"Tim, Timmy, really? Are you going to get mad at me for this? You asked, and I'm just being honest. It's not like it's _weird_ to think about one of your best moments when you're about to die, okay?" Dick watches Tim sit on the bed and begin pulling on his socks, one by one, followed by his boxers, the ones with random geeky words Dick had jokingly gotten him for his birthday and Tim had left here a few months ago. Tim purposely avoids looking at him, and Dick throws his hands up in the air and tugs open his drawers, pulling out his own pair of boxers and a raggedy t-shirt.

"What about the _not_ simplest answer?" Tim asks, and Dick turns to see him scrubbing his head half-heartedly before dropping the towel and grabbing his shirt. He shoulders are sagging, and the redness of his cuts and scrapes stand out starkly against his baby-smooth skin.

"Ah, wait, lemme clean your cuts."

"They're scrapes."

"Still, I've got band-aids too."

"Dick, those are for _Lian_. They've got Hello Kitty on them."

"I've got big-boy ones too."

Tim sighs and leaves his shirt in his lap, brows slightly furrowed like that's the most extreme expression he can manage at the moment. Which, due to the sedatives, might very well be true. Dick sits next to him and grabs the first-aid kit, popping it open and rummaging through it.

"Anyway, so you were saying, Tim?"

Tim fiddles absently with the hem of his shirt, alternately stretching it and bunching it together. Dick takes out a few large, square bandages for the scrapes on his legs and a couple smaller ones for where the thorns had punctured his skin. Hardly problematic, but you never want to risk infection.

"You said the simplest answer was sex."

"Oh, right." Dick rips the pouch of antibacterial cream and dabs it liberally on the scrapes on Tim's knees, the thorn scratches on his shoulder, inside of his elbow and along his calf, leaving trails of glistening lumps. They're just small, pinkish-red marks, but against Tim's pale skin, anything looks sacrilegious. "Right, well, I thought about you guys too, you know. All the people important to me, and I thought about what I'd done with my life and what I was satisfied with, said sorry for the things I'd done wrong. I mean, I had a while to think. But I wanted to die a happy man, you know?"

"And sex is what makes you happy."

Dick's fingers pause over Tim's shoulder at the bitterness in his voice, and now it's Dick's turn for his jaw to drop.

"Wha…? Tim. Tim, look at me." Tim refuses, so Dick wipes his hand on his boxers and takes his chin, careful of the bruise that is just barely starting to form on the side of his jaw, and pulls. It takes a moment, but Tim finally purses his lips and stares at Dick straight-on, daring him to deny his statement. Dick… Dick has to admit that he's hurt by the accusation.

Dicks sighs and begins rubbing his thumb back and forth across Tim's cheek. His skin is still unscarred there and faintly flushed from the shower heat. "Look, Tim, no. I mean, yes, making love makes _everyone_ happy. But it's not just that." He rubs his temple with his other hand and puckers his lips, trying to figure out how to best phrase this. "For example, I thought about you." Tim flinches at that, and Dick files that reaction away for later consideration. "I thought about Bruce. I thought about the first time I went out as Robin, and the first time I kissed Babs, and hanging out with the Titans at that one diner we always went to, and training you, and when I was at the circus… those moments made me really happy too. And I _did_ think of them. But, I mean, you know me. I'm not blind to how other people perceive me—I _am_ a really physical person, Timmy. So yeah, it's _easier_ for me to get into something I can remember physically. And that was, you know, what Kory and I were really good at. Making things physical. So it was easy to think about that and let that be my last thought. It doesn't mean I valued any of my memories with my family and friends any less, it's just the one that was… well, most gratifying at the time of dying, you know?" He ruffles Tim's still-damp hair, letting his hand remain there and begin rubbing slow little circles against Tim's scalp. He can see Tim processing this, coming to terms with it.

Tim closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them he looks less angry and bitter, even leaning into Dick's touch, but still… not happy. "It's not… entirely unexpected. It was on the list of things I'd imagined you could say."

Dick barks out a laugh, inappropriate as it may be, and shakes his head. "You _would_ have predicted my answers."

"Don't forget your leg," Tim says in reply when Dick begins to pack up the kit. He takes it from Dick's hands and takes out the antibacterial cream again. His voice is sort of slow and sleepy as he chides, "You never take proper care of yourself. Then Alfred has to come in here and do it himself."

Dick groans. "You too, Tim? As if it's not bad enough having Babs and him on my case all the time."

"You deserve it," Tim says, bending down to inspect each one of the knots on Dick's thigh. Dick can't hold back the fond grin at the concentration on Tim's face and he lays a warm hand on Tim's back, glad he hasn't put his shirt on yet. Tim starts and glances at Dick nervously for a moment, as if the past hour with all the holding and touching and back-rubbing hadn't occurred. Dick keeps his hand there, stroking back and forth along the raised bump of a scar, feeling the muscles shifting under the skin as Tim rubs in the antibacterial cream and gets some gauze to press against the wound.

"It's not too bad," Tim declares quietly, tapping Dick's knee lightly to signal for him to raise his leg. He takes a compression bandage and begins wrapping it around Dick's thigh methodically. It's entertaining to watch his usually precise and efficient movements riddled with lethargy, like a balloon deflating. "You should probably leave the stitches in for fourteen days. And be _careful_, your stitches are too close to the edges, that makes them easier for you to pull."

Dick rolls his eyes and slaps Tim on the back of the head jokingly. "Yes, Alfred." Tim is very professional and waits until he has set Dick's leg back down to glare at him. The effect is sort of dulled by how heavily his lids are drooping.

This is easy. This is simple banter between brothers that Dick can handle. But it's not exactly right either. The tenseness is gone from Tim's body, but its slack is only due to the benzodiazepines. The fact that he's moving with only minimal clumsiness at this point is proof that Tim's head is still churning at a million miles per hour, enough that even the sedatives aren't completely able to shut it off. Of course, Dick can see that just by looking at Tim's eyes. The slight glaze to them doesn't hide the way all his thoughts are clattering around inside, it just means that his body isn't responding to them the way it normally would. Not that Tim's ever _obvious_ about what he's thinking, but his body does actually reflect his state of mind, just in ways so minute that it took all of Dick's training in interrogation techniques and honest time and effort to learn to read his near-perfect poker face. And Tim is constantly testing those skills.

Dick combs his fingers through his hair, scratching the back of his head. Tim still hasn't told him what he meant by drowning.

"Tim—"

"Did you know," Tim begins, snapping the first-aid kit back and gathering the empty antibacterial cream containers and bandage wrappers in his hands, "that my first real, solid memory is of you?"

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><p><strong>Last part up tomorrow or the day after. You're welcome for the gratuitous mention of Lian and Wally :3<br>**


	3. Part III

**Oops, sorry, meant to post this up sooner.  
><strong>

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong><em>Hydrophilia<em>****_ - 3  
><em>**

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><p>"Did you know," Tim begins, snapping the first-aid kit back and gathering the empty antibacterial cream containers and bandage wrappers in his hands, "that my first real, solid memory is of you?"<p>

Dick's mouth clicks shut. The admission makes Dick ache, abruptly and fiercely, because what can Dick give Tim back? Tim has implied here and there the importance of that one meeting with Dick back at the circus, a day that changed the life of both of them. But to hear it put so bluntly, that it's indeed the _first_ memory of Tim's _existence_…

"And my last memory would be of you too."

Dick sucks in a sharp breath and feels a jolt of electricity unfurl from his head down to his toes, a wave of goosebumps making him shiver. He's always known that he's special to Tim. It's part of what endeared Tim to him in the first place, the awe and wonderment he felt at realizing that he was so important and influential to someone that Dick was frankly already amazed and inspired by. And he _knows_ that they have a bond that only rivals the ones Dick has with Bruce and Babs, but it's still… sobering when he realizes just how deep Tim's feelings for Dick run. Dick's love for Tim seems almost inadequate when faced with Tim's.

"Tim…" he watches as Tim drops the wrappers and trash in the wastebin and returns to his spot next to Dick. Their thighs are touching, a hot line of sensation, and Dick is irrationally gratified for the contact because it means that despite whatever Tim is getting at, things are still alright between them.

Tim draws in a breath, but it sounds calm, nearly sleepy. They sit side by side in the artificial light of Dick's room, staring at the wall, which Dick hasn't bothered hanging portraits on, and the portion of the bathroom visible through the doorway. The shaving cream bottle is still on the floor and the bathroom mirror still has traces of fog, fading quickly. A police siren wails out in the background, probably two blocks away judging from the volume, and they listen to the sound reverberate through the streets until it fades back into the white pattering of rain. Lazy waves of body heat mingle in the air between them, and they can hear other's breaths, see the motion out of the corner of their eyes. Dick doesn't want to break the silence, ever.

Eventually, Tim sighs and drops back to sprawl across the covers, one arm above his head and the other over his still-bare stomach. He closes his eyes and murmurs, "Tired."

Dick smiles, resisting the urge to tickle him at the sight of so much skin and reaches for one of his slippers on the floor, aiming carefully and throwing it at the light switch. Darkness invades the bedroom, morphing into shapes as their eyesight adjusts. Now the only light comes from the bathroom, a weak yellow rectangle of light that spills across the floor, climbs up the bed and drapes over them, allowing Dick to see as Tim reopens his eyes and drags his gaze over to Dick.

Dick lies down next to him, curling up on his side to face him, and Tim's glassy eyes follow the movement as he absently fingers the edges of the bandage on his hip.

"Nap time?"

"Nap time," Dick confirms.

"Seriously," Tim mumbles, "is anyone ever going to use the guest bedroom?"

Dick chuckles, settling in comfortably, his feet hanging off the side of the bed. "Pfft, there's no need. Even Wally and Roy sleep here with me."

Tim's lips quirk into a lazy grin, "Least not at once."

"Um…"

Tim's groans.

Dick smiles sheepishly. "Titans together?"

Tim lifts his head just enough for Dick to see the vague flicker of amusement behind the exasperation. The darkness settles around them, narrowing the world down to the patch of light between them and Dick's hand reaching out to settle on Tim's collarbone, warm and heavy. Tim rolls over onto his side to face Dick fully, the motion sliding Dick's hand up to Tim's jaw, where with a simple stretch of his fingers he can rub Tim's earlobe and dig through the fine hair just behind it. The roots are still damp, and Dick can smell the apple scent of his shampoo.

"You haven't told me yet what this is all about," Dick whispers.

Tim lowers his eyes for a moment, the lashes fluttering coyly against his cheek, and tucks his knees in a little closer, the skin on his back stretching out while his abs wrinkle slightly. The protective pose makes Dick have a momentary urge to draw his little brother into his arms.

"It's… not a big deal."

Dick resists refuting that statement and instead flicks his nose ever so gently, startling Tim into blinking a few times. He smiles and rubs the spot with his thumb. He has a thing for Tim's nose. "You think that matters? Tim, you're my brother. I want to know, whether it's a big or little deal." It's a little mean, but Dick pulls the guilt card, "You really worried me tonight, little wing."

Tim grimaces, just like Dick knew he would, and begins picking at a loose thread on Dick's comforter. "What do you want to know?"

Dick chuckles and resumes the slow glide of his fingers through Tim's hair. "How about everything? Why you came here instead of letting it wear off at home, what you meant by drowning, what's been on your mind the whole night, which I'm assuming is what kept making you space out, why you—" _feel so strongly about me_. Dick stops. "Yeah. All that."

There is a long moment of silence, where Tim picks a little harder at the thread and Dick lets his hand insist for him in the way it rubs a thumb on the crown of Tim's head and drags his fingertips patiently along the short hairs on the back of his head. Tim sighs and turns into the touch slightly while thunder harks at them from the sky and rolls imperiously between the alleys.

"It's… sort of dumb, actually."

Dick raises an eyebrow when he realizes from the faint discomfort in Tim's voice that were it not for the sedatives, Tim would probably be blushing right now.

"Tell me anyway," Dick says, twining their fingers together. Tim looks at their hands, watching the way Dick has automatically begun rubbing the knuckle of Tim's thumb at the same rhythm as his other hand runs through Tim's hair. Alright, so maybe Dick has a thing for rubbing and touching in general.

Tim closes his eyes and burrows his face further into the comforter, and if he reminds Dick of a ferret when he does that, well, he'll keep that to himself.

"I… had a dream." Dick's jaw would drop open if he were vertical, but as it is his eyebrows jump a mile high. Tim frowns, probably aware of Dick's reaction even with his eyes closed. "I know, I know, it was just… really vivid. I told you it was dumb."

"What happened in it?" Dick asks, squeezing Tim's hand in encouragement.

Tim shifts a bit. "I… I dreamt I was you. And I'd been drugged and taken hostage. None of it made sense, but I knew they were going to kill me, and I knew it was the end. I was lying on a cold floor, and I could make out a roar. For some reason, I – you—deduced it was a plane nonetheless, even though we couldn't think properly with the drugs. I was immobilized. I couldn't move and I couldn't see. It was… horrible, and so… abstract. I thought I was going to be sick; it was like my mind was a bird trapped in a cage, fluttering everywhere with no grounding and I couldn't follow my own thoughts. I hated it. I— I couldn't _think_." He takes a breath and his hands twitch within Dick's, squeezing harder. "I was you, and you knew you were going to die. And you thought about… your parents, and Bruce and Jason. Babs and Kory and the Titans. You thought about your time as Robin, and then about Bludhaven and flying through it—"

Dick waits for more, but Tim's eyes open, his gaze pained and so defeated that Dick knows, with a sick twist of his stomach, that there is no more. He knows Tim probably isn't thinking so out of sheer logic, but Dick feels like he has failed Tim in some way. He knows it's ridiculous to feel guilty because his dream-self in Tim's head didn't think of him, but he still feels pained. Because it's _Tim_, and even in a dream… he doesn't have to imagine the sheer misery and worthlessness that invades you when someone close to you, someone you idolize, sees you as a commodity that can be thrown away, fired and replaced. How many times after he first became Nightwing did he wonder if Bruce ever even thought of him?

"I'm sorry, Timmy. I'm so sorry," he whispers, biting his lip, leaning forward to brush his lips against Tim's forehead and turn his head to keep his cheek pressed there. And he means it, he really does, and he lets Tim feel it and _know_ it from the grip of his arms around him, pulling him close and squeezing him as tightly as he can.

Tim shakes his head and his eyes reflect the light just a tad too much when he pulls away enough to let a stuttering breath out and rest his head on Dick's arm. The air feels suddenly cold, and Dick reaches behind him to pull the comforter over them, never mind that they're sideways on the bed and it's too short to cover them both, so he has to reach over Tim to pull the end from the foot of the bed and tuck it around him. Tim's eyes slip closed again and he pulls his hand from Dick's to burrow it under his cheek and nestle into the covers. He looks so terrifyingly young when he does that.

Dick can feel the movement of Tim's jaw against his arm when Tim opens his mouth to continue, feel the warm puff of breath against his bicep, though it's nearly imperceptible with how quietly Tim is speaking. "Then the hatch opened, and it was time. They were going to throw us out of the plane into a river, and immobilized by the drugs as we were, bound and tied up, there was no way we'd escape or even be found later. But I didn't want you to die. So I made a deal, it doesn't make any sense, I know, but somehow we switched places. I was me again. I was me, and you were free, and I was being thrown off the plane, with this endless expanse of water below me. I… felt kind of comforted by the fact that I was diving through the air, because it's probably the last thing you would have liked to do before dying. It was… it was like a way to remember you before I died."

"And… is that when you drowned?" Dick asks, knowing the answer, his chest compressing until it's painful to breathe. Tim is speaking so calmly, even though his eyes are screaming about how distraught the ordeal made him. Dick is struck with awe that something as insubstantial as a _dream_ can have such an impact on him. He'd never have thought Tim could be affected by something so easy to throw away by logic, but he supposes Tim really is that good at fooling them into thinking he's something more than human at times. Dick never forgets that Tim is young, but sometimes he forgets _how_ young.

Here Tim looks up, just a dash of hesitant eyes going up to Dick's face and lowering again, and Dick loves Tim's eyes, loves that the range of expressions Tim refuses to let his face show somehow slips through there.

"Here's the odd part… I did drown. I sank and sank to the bottom, where there was no light and the temperature dropped until I couldn't even feel my body anymore, and I couldn't keep anything in my head straight enough to really understand what was going on. I thought I was in a kaleidoscope." Dick grimaces, brushes his thumb along the shell of Tim's ear and watches as Tim pauses, frowning slightly and thinking. "But something did filter through. At some point… _you_ were the water."

Tim's teeth peek out to chew his lip as he gathers his thoughts before continuing his half-aware mumbles. "And… dying wasn't so bad when you were the water, and you were all around me. It felt warm again, like you were holding me. At some point I stopped choking and struggling, and it was warm and you were there…" Tim's voice trails off.

"Like this?" Dick whispers, carefully wrapping his arms around Tim, bringing him close enough that the air between them turns warm and his breath is tickling Dick's neck and his still-damp hair is leaving moist trails on Dick's arm.

Tim nods sleepily, nuzzling closer still and lets out a breathy little sigh that puffs in the dip of Dick's collarbone. Tim's knees are digging into Dick's thighs, pressed a bit too close to his stitches, but Dick doesn't care. He feels exhilarated to have been granted such an uninhibited view into Tim's mind. He can see tonight laid out behind him now and see the reasons for Tim's behavior—the late-night call, Tim's initial entrance searching for him, the spacing-out, the questions, the freak-out in the shower. Even if it's only in hindsight, he feels gratified at being able to understand Tim, and what it means to have Tim trust him with his vulnerabilities. His biggest fear at this point is that nagging thought that it's probably just the sedatives that have allowed Tim to be so honest, but Dick… Dick will take what he can get.

Tim is fully relaxed now, whether from exhaustion or relief, or both. Dick would normally murmur words of comfort now, things like reassurances that it was just a dream, that it doesn't mean anything, but he can see from the smoothness of Tim's brow that they're unneeded. Still, that doesn't mean he's going to keep quiet.

"So that's why you wanted to come here?"

Tim nods again, eyes still closed. "Couldn't get it out of my head all day…and Ivy's toxin made it worse." His voice is rough with sleep, and Dick can feel the vibrations of it against his skin. "Kept thinkin' you were dead… Wanted t'see you and convince myself otherwise…"

Dick closes his eyes and bites his lips, not sure how to say what he wants to say. Not sure how to express the guilt and awe he feels at the importance he holds to Tim. He braces himself before opening his mouth.

"Sometimes… sometimes I think you love me too much."

But Tim only smiles wistfully, voice so heavy with sleep Dick can envision it sinking into the mattress. "I know. I do. But I don't regret it. And I don't want you... t'worry about it…"

Dick strokes the back of Tim's neck so lightly it makes Tim shiver in his arms and a hint of blue to peek out from under his lashes to reprimand him for rousing him from his almost-slumber. Dick smoothes out the hairs on his forehead in apology, but there's still something he needs to say. "I… I would do anything for you, Tim, you know that. But even that… feels like nothing next to your feelings. Sometimes I… I wish I loved you as much as you love me."

The admission is shameful for Dick: Dick who professes to love everyone, Dick who knows he'd give his life for Tim, but sometimes it still doesn't seem like enough in the face of Tim's evergreen devotion. But he feels like owes Tim the truth, at least.

Tim smiles, and there's a little bit of sadness mixed in with the happiness. "S'okay, Dick. I know. And that's enough for me." It shouldn't be, and Dick knows that, but maybe he's being selfish because he doesn't know what else to do and Tim is giving him acceptance and an out with his words.

Tim yawns, and Dick smiles and squeezes his waist. "Sleepy?"

Tim hums something so far from a real word that it's all the response he needs. He presses a kiss to Tim's forehead, ghosting his lips over Tim's brow, down the bridge of his nose and pressing another one against the tip before pulling back. Tim doesn't bother responding with more than another low pleased hum and Dick closes his eyes, breathing in Tim's clean apple-shampoo scent and etching into his mind the rhythm of his breaths against Dick's skin and the cocoon of warmth they're encased in.

"Hey, Tim," he says, nudging him with his nose. "If it makes you feel any better, this moment will be one of the ones I remember before dying."

* * *

><p><strong>So Tim finally spilled and Dick was able to make it marginally better. Maybe. Thanks for reading, guys!<br>**


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